I curse you with life
the thought it entails
the women you’ll never have
the fruits always out of reach.
Still, it is better you had lived
stuttering along time’s cobbled streets
your stench a perfume
polluting many into misunderstanding.
Without you nothing would happen.
For as has been said:
“Poetry makes nothing happen.”
that being precisely the point
the pendulum swings by,
space but a nothing filled,
time transfixed by your
slowly swinging stick.
Keep reaching my friends.
Your tears to tear at the ground
and become a rose that dies.
Keep reaching my friends,
no disguise, no lies.
